The Children of Roswell (Book One) The Swift Chronicle

by Alan James

  Brandt yelled into the open door of the Sikorsky, “Tell that thirteen to get back in the air and have him find out what’s going on over on the other side,” then to Kelly, “Mr. Kellerman, where’s the last man.” He leaned down toward Kelly’s ear, “You take the next shot right across the top of your head; and quite honestly, I don’t care if I kill you.”

  “OK … OK … I can tell you where he was the last time I saw him, but, he may have moved since then.”

  Brandt took a couple steps over to the Sikorsky, its blades still spinning in readiness, “Mr. Kellerman, I am not playing games.” He motioned for the microphone. “Morrison,” he spoke to one of the suits walking back with Matson and Forest.

  “Morrison here, Sir.”

  “James,” Brandt used Morrison’s first name. Kelly had no way of knowing that in this elite group of fighting men, that this was a signal to ignore the next direct order. “Pick one of those two, I don’t care which, and kill him.”

  Playing the game, Morrison replied questioningly, “Sir?”

  “Now James,” Brandt yelled into the microphone.

  Kelly barely had time to yell, “No! …” when he heard the shot in the distance. If he had been looking in the right direction, he might have seen the muzzle blast, clearly visible from where he crumbled forward to his elbows.

  “You son-of-a-bitch,” Kelly spoke into the asphalt, “I told you … I told you all I know.”

  “You told me nothing Kellerman,” Brandt said as he walked to Kelly’s side, “you told me nothing.”

  Taking two quick steps, Brandt kicked Kelly hard in his ribs on his left side. Kelly felt the air leave his lungs as he rolled onto his side.

  Brandt reached down and pulled Kelly’s head up by the hair, “Do I kill the other man, or, do you tell me where the last man is?”

  Out of options, Kelly, gasping for breath, pleaded, “Don’t shoot him … I’ll tell you … I’ll tell you.”

  Brandt used Kelly’s hair to pull him back up on his knees, “I’m waiting, Kellerman.”

  “OK … OK,” Kelly gasped, “… he was waiting under cover, in front of the hangar … the one that we booby-trapped. When it blew, he was supposed to hi-tail it to the other side. He seemed to think he could get the guns to work on the plane.” Kelly knew this lie had to last long enough to get him out of this jam. He figured by the time they checked it out, he’d have gained fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.

  He slumped backwards, sitting on his heels. He looked up at the night sky above him. He had never realized you could see so many stars out here in the desert. The cold wind, that had chilled him when he first arrived the night before, now felt refreshing as it played against the sweat on his forehead and cheeks.

  Morrison and the others walked up, leading Matson and Dr. Forest. As Kelly saw them both, alive, he looked over at Brandt who was already staring at him. Brandt’s chest heaved slightly as he chuckled under his breath, a slight smirk hanging on his lips until Kelly looked away.

  “Cuff Mr. Kellerman,” Brandt barked, his temper, now apparent to everyone, growing shorter.

  As Morrison snapped one cuff closed on his right wrist, Kelly turned to Matson and the doctor, “You guys OK?” he asked softly.

  Brandt had turned to walk away, but hearing Kelly speak, he immediately unleashed a back kick that Kelly just saw coming out of the corner of his eye. It was the kind of kick that would easily hyper-extend a knee, if that was where it had been aimed. It struck Kelly in the upper chest, over his heart, driving the little piece of chrome sideways in his pocket until it cut through his shirt and into his skin.

  “No talking between any of you,” Brandt bellowed as he spun. His gaze stopped at the Sikorsky. “Morrison,” he smiled, “cuff Mister Kellerman to the chopper.”

  “You heard the man,” Morrison said, forcing Kelly to his feet. He thumped him with the sharp corner of his rifle butt as they walked the short distance to the helicopter. Now, dizzy with pain, Kelly collapsed at the bay door. Morrison wrapped the open end of the hand cuff around the long metal bar used as a step below the door, and closed it over the connecting chain.

  Kelly was now stretched out on his back, his right hand shackled. He rolled onto his stomach, putting as much weight as he could on the little piece of metal. He drove it deep into his pectoral muscle. As he began to lose consciousness he whispered, “Help me, Brother.”

  Kelly did not hear the Brrt … Brrrrt.

  Kelly did not see the explosion. The fireball was huge as it billowed and rolled upward, turning the night sky over the little trailer a bright, brilliant orange. Even at this distance, Brandt and his men could here heavy pieces of metal and other debris crashing back to the ground.

  Brandt yelled, “Morrison, I said I wanted to know what was going on over there.”

  “Yes Sir, I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “The rest of you guys … in the Sikorsky, now,” he ordered, then, “No! No! leave those two here,” he said of Matson and Forest, “we’ll come back for them. Cuff them together back-to-back and set them down next to the hangar.”

  Morrison was yelling, “Sir, the thirteen pilot says the explosion was your Sikorsky … and … Sir … he says the disc is gone, Sir.”

  Brandt collected himself for a moment, “Morrison, who’s in the thirteen?”

  “That would be Arnell, Sir.”

  He stepped over Kelly and reached into the Sikorsky for the radio microphone and yelled, “Arnell.”

  “Arnell here, Sir.”

  “You and your gunner get back here, now … and watch your six all the way.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  Brandt tossed the mike back into the chopper. He stepped over Kelly again, and through the cockpit window, spoke to the pilot, “Get your rotor up to speed, we may have to get out of here in a hurry.”

  The pilot touched the bill of his cap in casual salute, and, with the rotors in neutral pitch, he slowly throttled up. As the noise from the engine increased, Brandt looked alongside the hangar toward the area where they had seen his Sikorsky go up in a boiling orange cloud. There were still small pockets of flame as some of the old dry brush and tumbleweeds were fanned by the south-western breeze.

  “THE DISC IS ON YOUR SIX”

  ‘Where in hell is that thirteen?’ Brandt thought. He started to move for the microphone again when he heard the windows in the first three hangars start to rattle; then, the familiar pop-pop-pop of chopper blades. He turned to his right in time to see the thirteen, about ten feet off the deck, as it emerged from between hangars two and three; running as fast as its blades would pull it. A few seconds later, he saw why.

  The plane came out on the same line as the little helicopter, its brilliant chrome skin sparkling in the light given off by the moon now high enough in the sky to do it justice. It was about twice as high off the ground as the little chopper and looked like it was having no trouble, whatsoever, keeping up.

  “The disc is on your six,” Brandt yelled into the mike.

  As it crossed a line, even with the Sikorsky, and parallel with the hangar doors, it began to slow. Its nose rose slightly, as if using the forward air pressure as a cushion. It gained another twenty feet and then slowly turned, hovering to face the Sikorsky. It spun back again in the direction of the thirteen, strangely looking like it was trying to make up its mind. Once more it turned toward the Sikorsky, then with a quick and recognizable finality, it snapped back and took a heading on the thirteen.

  Up again, it raised itself, another twenty feet or so. Even at this distance a strong vibration could now be felt in the asphalt. It, very quickly, adjusted its nose down a few degrees, slewed its nose, again almost instantly, to the right; the vibration in the asphalt increasing with each movement. It made one more small correction to the right, then, Brrrt. Fire poured from its nose as two tracers could be seen leaving each gun port. That meant at least sixty rounds were now headed down range.

 
Brandt turned to look in the direction of the little thirteen, now almost three quarters of a mile away. He could just make out the little sparks as the fifty calibers tore into the metal tubing that made up most of its fuselage. The tail section broke apart on the right side and the tail rotor swung forward in a half circle. It struck the canopy, still spinning, killing Arnell instantly. The soldier in the passenger seat would die seconds later as the wreckage fell slowly from the sky.

  The disc now adjusted its altitude, and it seemed, its attitude; instantly dropping to about thirty feet off the deck, it slewed again, slowly, very deliberately, in the direction of the Sikorsky.

  Suddenly, Brandt felt hunted. He jumped for the step that Kelly was cuffed to and hauled himself inside the bay door.

  “Get us out of here,” he yelled forward.

  “What about him?” the pilot motioned with his head toward Kelly.

  “I said get us out of here, NOW!”

  Matson and Forest looked on in horror as the big helicopter dragged Kelly, half unconscious, into the night sky. He dangled, spinning slowly as the pilot pulled on the collective as hard as he could.

  With his arm stretching to its limit, Kelly’s shirt grabbed a sharp corner of the little piece of metal embedded in the self inflicted wound in his chest. A few seconds more and it was pulled free of the wound and slid slowly down the inside of his shirt to his belt line. His warm blood followed the same path, staining his shirt to such an extent that, looking from the ground, Doctor Forest thought they had shot Kelly before taking off.

  As the helicopter rose to roof level, the pilot cranked hard left on the stick. The huge chopper banked abruptly to the left on a path over the top of hangar one. About half way across the roof, the shiny chrome disc suddenly shot up in front of him, stopping instantly at his level, blocking his path. The pilot pulled back hard on the stick, pointing the big choppers’ nose almost forty-five degrees skyward. With quick work on the stick, he leveled the chopper, and the two sat there, as if staring at one another. The helicopter pilot moved his stick to the left and the big chopper leaned over and slid to its port. The disc, as if choreographed, moved to its right to block. The chopper tried right, the disc blocked left.

  “What do we do, Sir?” the pilot almost pleaded to Brandt, “you want me to turn her around and run south?”

  “Don’t be foolish … you saw what it did to the thirteen. We can’t outrun that thing,” he paused, his gaze frozen on the chrome demon in front of him, then, “What I need now is some firepower.”

  A voice behind him rose above the noise of the rotor blades, “Sir, if you want firepower, there’s a couple M-nines in the back.”

  “Morrison,” he yelled without hesitation, “grab those nines and get up here.”

  ***

  Kelly was slowly coming-to. To say he was disoriented would not be the slightest of exaggerations. A moment before, he was back on that beautiful rose colored, two sunned world, enjoying the view over the wide canyon below him, and now … and now … he blinked his eyes hard against a harsh cold tornado of a wind that was blowing down on him as he craned his neck upwards to assess his situation. His right hand and forearm were nearly numb as he reached with his good hand to gain purchase on the step above. He could not. The pain had become too great, so he settled for grabbing his wrist in order to take some of the weight off of his right shoulder; a shoulder he was certain was going to dislocate any minute.

  Beneath he could make out the roof of the hangar some twenty feet below. As his slow spin on the handcuff chain brought him around to face the north, he saw the brilliant shine of the chrome disc, now bathed by the landing lights of the Sikorsky. The vision filled his senses. His body warmed and once again tears flowed in streams, blown down his cheeks by the wash of the rotor blades. His slow spin continued, and he strained his neck as long as possible to keep his eyes on the plane. When he could no longer see it, he snapped his head in the other direction and picked it up from the other side. An urgency began to fill him as from deep within him came a welling of emotion he could no longer control. His lungs filled with all the air they could possibly hold, and, louder than any man has ever yelled before, a single word roared from him: “B_R_O_T_ H_E_R.”

  A small flash appeared from a single gun on the port side. Kelly heard no sound. He was jolted back to reality by an excruciating pain that filled what senses he had left in his right arm. His wrist had been pulled upward with a mighty jerk. He felt the pop as the ball and socket separated in his shoulder. He feared now, that once his full weight came back down on his arm, it might tear the ligaments, and he would fall to his death, leaving his arm attached to the helicopter.

  Kelly began his fall … but there was no tug on his arm. He now felt, and heard, the wind building speed as it rushed passed his ears.

  ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘at least I’ll die in one piece.’

  The disc had fired a single round, striking the handcuff chain just below the step. The force of the fifty caliber bullet broke the chain, but at the same time it pushed it backwards, pulling upward, violently on Kelly’s arm.

  The plane then refocused its efforts on the Sikorsky. In a split second, having already slewed left a couple of degrees, it began a slow turn to the right, letting go a fusillade with all six fifties. For four seconds the mighty guns roared. Almost five hundred rounds tore through the big Sikorsky, nearly tearing it in half, lengthwise.

  Mid way through the cacophony, Brandt pulled the trigger on the M-nine Bazooka; its sound lost completely in the bellow of the fifties. The little two-point-three inch rocket left the stove pipe and made a straight line for its chrome target.

  As the debris from the big Sikorsky fell through the roof of the hangar, the disc (a four foot hole blown in its starboard side at the canopy and wing fairing) wobbled slightly on its central axis, then slid backwards, crashing through the wall and coming to rest on the hard concrete floor of hangar two.

  ***

  Kelly was lying on his back, once again looking up at the bright stars in the Arizona night sky. He thought, I’m alive … my God, I’m alive.’

  He rolled his head, first to the left, then to the right, barely able to see over the depression he was lying in.

  “Corrugated steel … this looks like corrugated steel,” he said to himself.

  To his right he could see a column of smoke rising twenty feet or so from him. He couldn’t tell at the time, but it was smoke from the Sikorsky on the floor below him.

  He had landed on the roof of hangar one, between two of the curved roof rafters. The steel had given way enough, without pulling itself free, to cushion his fall.

  ***

  “Kelly,” the voice called.

  “Ke__lly,” it called again.

  Kelly thought it sounded so far away. Then, a few minutes later, “Kellerman … Ke__ller__man,” cried another voice, closer this time.

  It was Matson and the Doctor, walking nearly back to back, their arms stretched sideways behind and between them, still shackled.

  “Here,” he called, with what little voice he could muster, “up here.”

  The two men worked their way inside the hangar through a large, jagged hole left by the Sikorsky’s engine that had broken free from the huge chopper when it hit the floor. The electrical system had sparked a small fire under what was left of the helicopter’s dashboard. The pilot and co-pilot seats were now smoldering; the occupants, long past worrying about being burned.

  At the side of the gaping hole in the roof, the chopper had brought down three of the long, curved, wooden roof rafters. They had stayed, nearly in one piece; each rafter in turn (supported by torn strands of the steel roofing) reaching a little closer to the floor than the one before it. They hung there looking like one end of an old, broken Japanese paper fan. The last one in line extended nearly all the way to the floor and had turned somewhat sideways so that its two-by-six webbing looked like they might act as a c
rude, if not precarious, ladder.

  “Kelly,” Matson yelled, “call out again, so we can tell exactly where you are.”

  “Up here … I’m up here … on the roof.”

  Both men turned their heads upwards. They had been left sitting against the outside hangar wall and did not see the action that had brought down the Sikorsky.

  “How in God’s name did you get up there?” Matson queried.

  Kelly, now mustering strength he thought beyond his abilities, pulled himself from the hollow he was lying in. Using his good left hand and arm, he crawled on hand and knees to the edge of the chasm.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered Matson’s question, “but I reckon I’d rather be up here, than under that pile of junk,” he said, nodding his head toward the tangled and smoldering remains below.

  Surveying the situation, Kelly turned back to the two men, “You guys are gonna have to find a rope or something. Maybe some parachute shrouds … anything … and then find a way to get it up here to me.”

  Matson and the Doctor turned slowly, like two dancing dolls on top of a music box, and waved their handcuffed hands at Kelly.

  “Oh,” Kelly said, “You’re not going to be much help, are you?”

  “Sorry,” Matson said, then offering, “Look, over there to your left, where these three rafters are attached … can you get over there?”

  Kelly looked at the spot along the edge of the roof. There were several open holes; the steel roofing either hanging in place by a single attachment point, or having fallen to the floor below.

  “Yeah, maybe,” then in after thought, “ … hey Doc, my right shoulder’s dislocated, got any ideas?”

  “Oh Jeeze,” Forest whispered to Matson, “that’s not good.” Then he called up to Kelly, “Is it anterior or posterior?”

  “Is it ant … , what?”

  “Sorry, sorry,” the doctor apologized, “does it feel like your upper arm bone has moved to the front or rear of your shoulder?”